


life is but a dream

by agletmaybe (agletbaby)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Inception Fusion, Datekougyou | Date Tech, Gen, old fic newly posted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:55:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24916471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agletbaby/pseuds/agletmaybe
Summary: Futakuchi is newly in charge of a team of extractors, whose job is - in theory - to construct and manipulate dreams in order to steal information from the dreamer. In reality, things are not going merrily merrily merrily merrily.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	life is but a dream

It’s always impressed Futakuchi, how quickly people adjust to working in dreams. The yield of the world trips you up at first: the lazy gravity, the foldable landscapes. It’s trippy, quite frankly, but somehow you can always find your balance eventually, and then you're off, bouncing around the strange and impossible worlds of other people's heads like nowhere else exists. Futakuchi can admit that humanity can sometimes be impressive, even if it’s just because of that ability to adapt.

He’s thinking about withdrawing that credit though, watching post-dream Konganegawa wobble around. Aone sends him a glance, obviously detecting his frustration, but it’s not like Konganegawa is going to pick up on it. They’ve been training him as an architect for a month and a half now, and in that time Futakuchi has come to realise subtlety for Konganegawa is the same as loud yelling for everyone else.

“Remember to breathe deeply if you feel sick,” Sakunami says, tugging on Konganegawa’s sleeve and leading him back to the chair he’d inexplicably jumped up from after waking up. Right now, Sakunami is all responsibility and sympathy, all the stuff which Futakuchi can’t be bothered with. Or doesn't want to be bothered with, at least. Konganegawa is midway through the usual frantic apology spiel that follow his dreams, but he lets Sakunami sit him down, which means he probably won't puke and so Futakuchi doesn't have to feel bad about leaving the little scene behind, even if Koganegawa is in the middle of a sentence.

He stands, using his knees to push himself up, out of the faded armchair — he has just woken up, after all, so he's feeling a little heavy — and heads through the flat’s hall and out the door, into the hazy morning air. It’s already too hot and the day’s hardly started. Already regretting leaving the air-conditioning, Futakuchi slumps down against the outside wall anyway, resigning himself to the heat and dirty jeans: there’s a serious amount of dust on the ground. He traces a vague maze in it, paying no attention to whether it’ll be solvable or not.

Aone follows him out and stands over him. For a moment there is silence, before Futakuchi’s innate need to fill any quiet with noise overtakes him, and he sighs dramatically. Aone doesn’t react, which Futakuchi has long since decided is an invitation for him to spiel.

“It was hilarious at first,” he says, and Aone sinks down across from him, folding legs and arms up until he’s carefully crouched. “Like, someone being completely unable to do something I find easy? Always funny. But it’s getting concerning.”

“You are so right, Futakuchi, but what else would I expect from a genius like you?” Aone replies. Well, he doesn’t. He tilts his head though, and it’s kind of the same thing.

“You’d think, given how everyone dreams already, it’d be okay. We're not really starting from scratch, because he's literally been practising his whole life. But no, it’s all ‘let’s push the limits and make the dream incredibly obvious and somehow not realise that's what's happening’ and then, after every possible projection has dogpiled us, he gets all queasy for the next hour, which is when we’re going to need to be, you know, escaping the law.” Futakuchi sighs again, and rolls his eyes for good measure. “He needs to get it together.”

“You don’t actually need the architect with you in the dream,” Aone says — actually says it, which is annoying because Futakuchi is very good at deliberately misinterpreting his silence.

“I know,” Futakuchi replies, because he does, technically, just like he technically knows that you can’t actually perfectly emulate someone else, even inside a head. But, as a forger, guess what he claims he can do? It’s easier to dream when you forget reality. “I do. But, it’s strange not to.”

Aone nods at that, and lets Futakuchi have the last word. Which, sure, he always does, but sometimes he’ll doubtfully blink or frown very slightly, and it’ll bother Futakuchi for the rest of the day. Not this time, though — maybe all that talking tired him out. Whatever. Futakuchi isn’t going to question it, not if Aone isn’t going to question him.

* * *

They have an hour and a half or so to go before it’s safe to go under again. Sakunami and Fukiage are very insistent about sticking to timings — Futakuchi reckons that, because they never enter the dream, they don't have anything else to do except be fussy — so he and Aone use the time to wander down to a convenience store and grab breakfast.

They come back with seven pots of cup-noodle and pass them out. They all eat sat on the floor, between perfectly good chairs, because the chairs are for ‘dreaming only’ according to someone who sure isn’t Futakuchi. Konganegawa wolfs his noodles down and immediately asks for more, which they clearly don’t have, and Onagawa complains about the brand they picked, but that gives Futakuchi an excuse to threaten him with a disco themed dream, to match his dumb disco look, so it’s not too bad.

By the time they’ve finished, sunlight has angled itself through the window, onto the uncarpeted floor and over Obara’s knees, and it almost makes their bleak rented room feel cosy. Post-noodles and lit by morning light, everything seems less urgent, and so Futakuchi lets his earlier frustration go, just a little, just as much as he’s able to afford.

It’s then, of course, that his phone goes off, and off goes his good mood too. The ringtone completely cuts up the peace. (Well, peace may be an exaggeration - Konganegawa is mid-conversation with Fukiage, who may be a competent chemist, but completely lacks the ability to quieten him down. But no one’s fighting, so Futakuchi is going to claim this as an oasis of calm.) At the noise, all eyes in the room move to Futakuchi. Phone calls are unusual and, good or bad, they tend to be interesting.

“It’s Nametsu,” he informs the room, once he’s glanced the caller. There’s a tangible release of tension; her checkups just don’t hold the same excitement as, say, the news the law will descend on them any minute, or whatever.

“Thank her for for the song suggestions. They make really solid kicks.” Obara says, and Fukiage backs him up with a sober nod which Futakuchi mentally translates into a whoop of support. He idly wonders why he’s ended up working with so many people he has to interpret. At least Koganegawa is a change of pace, given that there's never (ever) any doubt what's going on in his head.

Futakuchi gives them all a thumbs up as he retreats back outside to take the call without the usual mess of interruptions and background noise.

* * *

  
“A week to go!” Nametsu chirps down the line, obnoxiously cheerful, a tone she only uses when she’s feeling confident in them. It has been honed to annoy Futakuchi. “How are we feeling? First operation with the new team, that’s pretty exciting!”

Futakuchi groans and hopes that adequately communicates his feelings on the matter. It must, because when Nametsu speaks again, there’s a note of threat beneath the bright veneer of her voice.

“I hope that was because you’re just too cool for things like caring, and not because you’re actually concerned about how this is going to go down. Because, somehow, incredibly, I haven’t actually had to bail your team out of serious trouble yet, and if I have to start, Futakuchi, the blame is on you. But I’m sure that won’t happen!”

“We’re practicing dreaming together a lot,” he tells her. “Like, a lot.”

“Does that mean, like, a whole two times a day?” Nametsu replies. The good humour’s largely gone from her voice now; she just sounds unimpressed. Futakuchi must be tired, because he feels bad about frustrating her. Normally he revels in it. Normally it’s over less important things.

“We’ve already gone under once today, and we’re going to keep doing it as frequently as Sakunami lets us. That’s the plan for the rest of the week.”

“I guess that’s why you’re awake so early then. I was impressed when you picked up.” Nametsu is teasing now, which means, hopefully, her worry has been averted. Futakuchi wonders if it was the mention of Sakunami that reassured her, and files the possibility away as a future tactic. She always has had more faith in, well, everyone that isn't him.

“Um, I’m very responsible I think you’ll find.”

“Literally everyone who’s ever met you would beg to differ.”

“Well,” Futakuchi says, with a huff for good measure. “Now you’ve properly wrecked my confidence-” Nametsu snorts. “Are we finished? Or is there something else.”

There’s a moment of silence before Nametsu replies, serious and quiet. “What’s the issue? Why are you worried?”

Futakuchi pauses before replying, silently running through all delays and setbacks and general inadequacies that keep emerging, so that he can give Nametsu an answer as concisely as possible. “Inexperience,” he settles on.

“Konganegawa?” she asks.

“I mean, yeah. He’s good, in theory. His designs are good. Unique. No one can find their way out, but that includes him. He keeps changing bits and then forgetting mid-dream and then suddenly we’re surrounded by projections and-” Futakuchi breaks off. “The whole team though, we’re still adjusting to working together and I feel like I should do something to unite us but I don’t really know what I’m doing either.”

“Kenji.” Nametsu says, and the tone of her voice is weird. He doesn’t trust it. “That was so honest. That was adorable.”

“Wow. Thanks for that useful response. Mai.”

“Hey, I’m just here to give you jobs and make sure you don’t mess up me getting my cut. I’m not going to talk you through your inadequacies.”

“I’m don’t feel inadequate. I’m amazing.”

“Sure. That lovely confession was just a lie.”

“I mean, lying is my job.”

Nametsu tuts. “That’s true. How annoying. I guess I’ll let you get back to your practising then. Don’t forget to call if you need any—”

“Oh, there were various thanks for the songs, by the way.”

“Of course. They were great choices.” Nametsu sighs. “Tell everyone good luck, and I believe in them, and that I’ll fully back them if they ever decide to mutiny against their cruel new leader.”

“Hm. I’ll speak to you later, Nametsu.”

“Bye, Futakuchi. Good luck to you too.”

* * *

  
He’s at a festival, killing time before the hanabi show begins. At the moment the sky above him is dark and starless, so the idea that it will soon burst with fireworks is a pleasant one. It'll be a good way to end the summer; already, odd tendrils of mist slip through the humid night, signs of an early autumn trying to mark its territory.

For now, though, Futakuchi makes his through a maze of stalls. It's a literal maze, although it feels normal enough, the route through lit by light spilling from orange lanterns which bob through the darkness, just about illuminating the games and food on sale, although nothing outside them. It's all forest out there, Futakuchi intuitively knows. If he listens, he can just hear branches bending to wind beneath the scrape and bubble of the festival.

He pauses by a stall selling katsudon, which he doesn’t think he’s ever seen at a stall before, but here it is, and it smells so good that he doesn’t think to question it. The person behind the counter, unremarkable blurry, smiles at Futakuchi, but there’s no money in his yukata, he always forgets to add it, so he just inhales and moves along, drifting onwards through the thick, warm air of the evening.

There are other people around, half-familiar faces behind the stalls or brushing past him, but not many, so he’s a little surprised that it takes Obara as long as it does to materialise besides him. They’re in Futakuchi’s dream after all — by definition he’s at its centre, so they should be coming to him.

“Sorry,” Obara says, a little breathlessly, before Futakuchi has a chance to comment. “Aone just stopped Konganegawa from adding a rollercoaster and I couldn’t bring myself to leave. He didn’t say a word. It was amazing.”

Futakuchi considers this. “I need to thank Aone.”

“Probably.”

For a moment, they walk in companionable silence. There’s no rush if the dream’s stable, and it’ll probably help Konganegawa to practice keeping it that way. Obara stops to examine a rifle game, being staffed by some snooty kid Futakuchi that played volleyball against way back in middle school, he thinks.

“It’s like a photo album,” he calls to Obara, who wanders back towards him and humming out a questioning note as he does so. “All these people I used to know. One big nostalgia trip.”

Obara shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. It’s never my dream.”

“Not mine either, normally. These dumb practice runs aren’t actually much help for me. If I put on someone else’s face in my own dream it basically implodes, you know. The projections turn on you. Kamasaki made me try it once.”

“That sounds horrible.” Obara says lightly.

“Yup.” It was. But, he thinks, with the obnoxious high ground of hindsight, he knows what can happen now, for certain. It’s good to experiment, whether you’re a forger or, he supposes, an architect like Konganegawa. It’s just, Konganegawa is doing it before he's got the basics down. “Where are the others?”

“The square.” Obara tells him. “It shouldn’t be too much further.”

“No.” Futakuchi agrees. All routes through the festival lead back to the square eventually: the corridors of stalls, the rocky path that leads to a shrine that isn’t there, the concealed thoroughfares which Futakuchi isn’t allowed to know whilst he’s the dreamer, in case his projections learn about them too. They loop round, without actually seeming to turn, and deposit the walker back in the middle. Futakuchi and Obara keep going forward.

Eventually, the ground stretches, the stalls turn out at right angles, opening into a wide, warmly lit space. Although they call it the square, it's really hexagonal, with a path in (or out) at the centre of each side, flanked by two stalls. There are twelve stalls in total, each one carefully designed — or perhaps not so carefully, where Konganegawa was in charge — to evoke nostalgia in their client.

Futakuchi’s favourite is the one where you can win a fish, if you catch it a little wooden net. The fish streak through the water, looking more like oddly reflecting dapples of light than living creatures, sliding shapes in glinting colours under the dark surface. They’re fun to watch, even if they’re designed to slip through the net, which makes the game itself redundant. He and Obara emerge by it, and when Futakuchi glances at the tanks waiting on the stall, he sees a dart of deep green in a shade and size which don’t overlap in any real fish, and all the better for it. Konganegawa made that, he reminds himself, and draws himself up tall, leaderly, as they approach the small group on the other side of the square, next to the photograph stall.

It’s not really a group, he realises, as he and Obara approach. Konganegawa and Aone are standing together, but Onagawa is stood apart, inspecting another stall, or rather the chalk price sign hung up on it. Futakuchi has learnt now to let him do his thing, whatever that is, so he focuses his attention on Konganegawa, who’s looking sheepish.

“C’mon, Kogane,” he says, once he’s close enough, doing his best not to sound too chastising, and failing. “You’ve got to stop adding stuff.”

Koganegawa shakes his head. “I just thought it would make the dream better! Because rollercoasters are fun and we want him to be— to be relaxed!”

“Do you actually find rollercoasters relaxing?” Futakuchi asks, before he can help himself, but then shakes his head. “Don’t answer that. There’s a structure to the festival grounds, right, one that we worked on very carefully, and a rollercoaster, or anything, really, would upset that. It’d be like trying out a new move in the middle of a match.” They both played volleyball at school, so Futakuchi occasionally brings it up when he's trying to relate to Koganegawa, but he can see the metaphor bouncing off him, because that would be something he’d do.

“It’s just—” Koganegawa starts, and Futakuchi wonders if he should alert his subconscious to their presence — it’d be painful, but maybe it’d teach him a valuable lesson. But, like a good, fair leader, Futakuchi doesn’t do that, and tries the reasoning approach. Again. For the millionth time.

“I know you think that you can just do anything in the dream world, but you can’t,” he says, over Koganegawa’s stuttered attempts at justification. “There are still rules, they’re just a bit more spread out. You still have to, ah, balance things. You know this.”

“So my rollercoaster has to be balanced?”

Futakuchi pauses to roll his eyes, but then realises that leaving Koganegawa to ponder that may be dangerous, and quickly starts talking again. “No, the dream has to be balanced. Really, you should only make the minimum number of things you can.” Koganegawa pulls a face, repulsed at that idea. “This dream is already good, so you should just. Leave it be.”

After a second, Koganegawa nods thoughtfully. “I see.” Do you? Futakuchi’s internal monologue yells. Do you really? He tries to look calm, unruffled. Channel his inner-Aone. “I’m really sorry, Futakuchi-san. Aone-san. Obara-san. I’ll practice making balanced rollercoasters in other dreams instead.”

“Just don’t make them at all.” Futakuchi finishes, but it’s already a lost battle so he turns to Aone whilst Koganegawa skips off to fiddle with something else. “Thanks for stopping that. Maybe one day it’ll stick.” Aone nods, and then pushes up the white sleeve of his yukata — where Futakuchi’s is green, with white detail, Aone’s is the opposite, which is rather cute, Futakuchi thinks — and taps his watch.

Right on cue, Obara disappears, and he’s followed rapidly by the others, until Futakuchi’s the only one left, and then he feels the ground swing away from him. The smell of warm air and cooking become echos of themselves before disappearing completely, and the dark festival ground slides into Sakunami’s face, lit with pale daylight, as he leans over Futakuchi to make sure he’s waking up okay.

**Author's Note:**

> i just found this, which i wrote in, like, 2016? and was pleasantly surprised by its completeness, so figured i'd post. i think it was supposed to be a whole epic au, complete with many other teams and significantly more dream weirdness, but this is all that remains. i also remember nothing about inception now, so just have my fingers crossed that it's accurate.
> 
> anyway, hope you enjoyed!


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